Ties that Bind
by QueenSkellington
Summary: No one can save you, when no one believes you.
1. Chapter 1

"Oh, Eugene…" And it was with those words that the boy cut out. Golden eyes directed themselves from the holy woman in front of him in favor of the dusty window to the right of her. Even through the grime and flotsam covering the pane of glass, he could make out the evening sun as it slunk below the horizon. _I'm going to be late! _He thought to himself. He bounced restlessly in his seat, callused and dirt crusted fingers tapping out each second impatiently. _1, 2, 3, 4, if I'm late again I'm done for—_

"Eugene!" His teeth sliced his tongue in shock at the sudden scolding wrath of the nun. He returned his irascible gaze to her, gritting his now bloodied teeth, "This is the third fight this _week, _Eugene. What happened? You used to be such a good boy." He thought over his answer to this carefully.

"Well…" He started, his classic tactic to buy time, "Well, I guess I've just found a route I like more."

"What, being a bully?" He sat up straight at that remark. Oh no. _Oh no. _He was not a bully, and he would not be called one. Holy woman or not, she would be going down if she dared utter such a word again.

"I am not a bully! He started it!" The brunette exasperatedly protested, "He's been stealing from me for—"

"Do you have any proof he took your things?" She calmly interrupted, her spindly fingers pressed flat against the desk in front of her. He gulped, looking at the tool beneath her hand.

"Well…no…b-but I can find proof! I know he's doing it!" Eugene grips the arms of the chair, the spindly strands of brown hair falling into his eyes.

"Eugene, enough!" The nun stands, and instantly the orphan is frantically looking for a way out of the room. The door isn't an option; there are too many obstacles on the other side. She'd catch him, and catching him would guarantee at least 10 lashes. He then looks to the window he'd been so intently focused on. It's high off the ground, but not too high for him to reach. It's thin though, and for once he thanks the fact that he's at least thirty pounds under weight. The only struggle would be getting his shoulders out, and at worst he could dislocate one to squeeze through, God knows he'd done it before. So he saw his plan of action and bolted.

It was all relatively fast. Eugene jumped onto the arms of his chair as the harsh whip came down towards him. With his odd position, he managed to dodge the blow, and used his advantage of surprise to jump from the chair, swerve around the disciplinary figure, and jump on top of her desk. An unfortunately placed book caused his footing to slide beneath his bare feet, but he manages to regain his footing before jumping to the windowsill. He jams his fingers into the gap between the glass and the frame, exerting all of his limited strength into forcing the stubborn window open.

But the whip is faster. With a _crack! _The whip comes down on his back, tearing the back of his already abused shirt further open. A fresh gash is now displayed, and a lazy line of blood starts to trickle its way down his back and starts to soak the waist of his tattered pants. He holds his grip though, managing to scramble through the tight windowsill. He hears the whip crack after him as he throws himself through the gap, making the steep two story fall into a horse trough below. As he hits the tiny wooden structure he lets out a hiss of agony. _God. Damn. Dry. Season._

He climbs from the dry trough, trying to ignore the warm crimson fluid covering his back and slowly encroaching on his trousers. It'd clot, it'd heal, and the pain would fade. He had no time to focus on the pain anyway. He was burning daylight, and had to get going if he was going to make it to the meeting point before they both left him behind. So he started running. Personally, Eugene really did love running. Running was good for him. It cleared his head, and wiped all the pain from his body and mind. All that mattered was putting one foot in front of the other. _Left, right, breathe in, left, right, breathe out, and repeat. _

He darts through a river easily, using protruding rocks as stepping stones before landing on the other side. He turns his head skyward, squinting through the thick limbs of the trees towering over him. He had about five minutes at most, and that was with some generous rounding up. But using some well-worn short cuts, he managed to make it to the clearing just as the group had been leaving.

"Wait!" He cries, panting heavily. He loved running, but _hell _did it wear him out.

"Well, well. Look at that, Pretty Boy did make it." He looks up at the older man, straightening himself to look taller. He pushed back his shoulders and raked his fingers through his wild hair, trying to smooth it. If he was ever going to be taken seriously as the rouge he wanted to be, he'd need their help. They were the Stabbington Brothers, after all. At the age of twenty-five, they were already well known for doing whatever they pleased, whenever they pleased, no matters who's throat they had to slit. Just the life he wanted.

Freedom, adventure, and they were offering it to him. All he had to do was kill. Just one person. Take one life and they would teach him. Well, the larger of the two would. The slightly smaller one never spoke, only watched. It was creepy as hell. But anyway, it was a deal too sweet for him to pass up. It's one person, how hard could it be to just kill one measly person?

"Yes, I made it." He says, forcing his voice to stay even, "I just made a detour to…to steal some stuff." He huffs, crossing his arms. _Play it cool. Play it cool._

"Right…and you happened to get whipped while stealing _stuff?_" The brother asks suspiciously, grabbing him by the front of his ripped shirt, causing the torn fabric to rub uncomfortably against the open wound on his back, "Don't lie to me, Pretty Boy." The orphan sighs, defeated.

"Alright, alright, you got me. One of the nun's caught me with the whip again. Happy?—now let me down!" He squirms and writhes. Being nearly ten years their junior, he was predictably shorter than the two renowned thugs; not that he liked them rubbing his face in it. His wish is granted as the brother drops him on the dirt unceremoniously.

"Yes. Now, you aren't gonna chicken out on us, are you?" He shakes his head as he pushes himself to his feet, "Good, because once you've come this far, there isn't any going back. Ever." He flicks out a dagger from its sheath, waving it threateningly, "Understood?"

"Yeah, I get you." Eugene needlessly dusts his shirt off, "Now come on, let's get this over with." He made his way through the forest, trying to keep his stride even and confident, but the closer he got to the unknown target, the more he felt a weight on him. A dragging feeling of _stop. Stop it. You're not a killer. You're a good boy—_

-x-

"Get down there!" A commanding voice ordered him as two large hands hooked his chains to the solidly built stone wall, "Here's your dinner, Rider." And with that, the guard tossed the abused wooden bowl at said criminal. He winced back as the contents of the bowl splattered against his cheek before sliding down onto his soiled vest. He looked up at the Guard before him with a narrow of his golden eyes. "You can thank the pigs for not finishing their meal. It's the only reason you get that."

"Make sure to give them a big thank you for me, then." He retorted, writhing in the grip of the chains holding his wrists together above his head, "But they really should get better taste." He huffs, doing his best to spit out the slop that had managed to splash into his mouth. _What a wonderful puree of shit and garbage. _He's snapped from his thoughts as he looks up at the looming guard.

"You need to learn to hold your tongue if you want to keep your head, or at least prolong your hanging." With a sickening creak, the guard places his heavy boot on Flynn's chest, pressing all his weight into it. The pressure caused his ribs to bend and he let out a groan of protest.

"I don't need to prolong it." He looks up at him, struggling for air with the boot planted on his chest, "Go ahead and string me up. I don't care." He gives a twisted grin, a mocking parody of what had once been a charming smile, "You have nothing you can take from me."

"I can take your life." The silence following that question is deafening as the two men watch each other. The intense stare down is broken by the chained man as he averts his gaze to the ground.

"You already took that." The guard finally takes his boot from his chest, turning and making his way to the barred door of the cell.

"Being cryptic won't save you, Rider." He steps out, slamming the bars shut behind him, "Nothing will save the man who murdered the Princess."

-x-

_A/N; _OKAY. I SWEAR. This will all make sense I promise. I mean it. The two different stories will eventually link back together. It'll probably take a billion chapters…but I'm getting to it, alright? Don't freak out.


	2. Chapter 2

It had all happened so fast. One moment he was walking towards an unknown location, the next he was frantically running from the guards for the murder of a woman he didn't even know the name of. They'd told him that he would just have to kill her. That he just had to kill, and they'd help him. But they'd betrayed him. The minute his dagger had slit his victims throat, those two backstabbers had called for the guards and said guards weren't slow on the uptake. With the Stabbington's cry of _"Murderer!" _ the thunder of horses hooves pounding cobblestone resounded from everywhere.

And here Eugene was now, scrambling through an almost dark forest, using only his ears to tell where the guards were coming from. He just wanted to be free. He'd never wanted to be hunted, or alone, or _scared. _Yet here he was, running alone through the forest, hunted, alone and beyond scared. _It's just running. Left, right, breathe in, left right, breathe out. Remember? _The boy looks down at the pain in his feet deterring his progress when he really needs it. An unshaven forest was unforgiving at best, and he nearly topples when a razor like rock slices through the flesh of his right foot. The wounded boy manages to keep from simply collapsing, instead stumbling off of his path and rolling onto his back in a pile of dry brush.

The loud crackle of the decaying leaves beneath him causes him to flinch, and he sits up, looking down at himself. Covered in blood, dirt, grime and the carcasses of the forest he was a sight to be seen, which was exactly what he didn't want to be.

"Get him! I know he's around here!" His breath hitches in his throat, and even in the dark he can almost see the palace horses angry nostrils and glistening eyes charging at him, their razor hooves waiting to tear him apart. He needs to get out of here, and he needs to do it _now. _So he takes the only root he can think of, and that's straight down.

"It's not that far down, it's not that far do—" He looks over the edge of what basically qualifies as a canyon, the brush that's serving as his shelter sitting just at its lip, "Oh that's really far." And with those words, he pushes himself over the edge and down the sloping canyon, wishing he hadn't screamed quite as loudly as he did as he fell. Falling is technically an incorrect term, considering he less fell, and more tumbled down the canyon wall. He rolled down the sloping side over and over, each roll bring a new round of bruises and sickening sounds of _crunch! _and _crack! _before his beaten body comes to a stop on the canyon floor.

His caramel eyes open slowly, squinting to see past the blood obscuring his vision. Just on the lip of the canyon he sees the outline of various horsemen and guards, all looking down into the pitch black canyon. Even if they could see him, no sane horses would ever come down that near straight down slope. So reluctantly, the horses and men turn away, leaving him shrouded in silence. That is, until he attempted to move.

Every shift stung, and every movement delivered another round of agony. "H-Help…" He manages to stammer out, coughing a cloud of dust, his voice lost in the looming ravine. He wasn't quite delusional, though, so he knew that no one was coming for him, and he had to drag himself back to the orphanage if he had any chance of making it out of this. _I-I'll…I'll go back, and they'll fix me, and I'll never leave again. I'll be good. _To figure out what would be the first limb to aid him in pushing him to his feet, he flexed his hands first. _Wrists aren't broken…_he nods, taking inventory of the bones in his arms, finding his left arm completely intact, while his right elbow and shoulder were both quite possibly broken. One arm was enough to push him up, though, and he used that to his advantage. Propping himself up on his left arm, he managed to sit up.

As he made this movement several dislocated ribs ground against each other, giving him a painful reminder of what he'd done. _Just one movement at a time…no rush. _This proved true, until the baying sounded in the distance. _Okay, a bit of a rush now…_

-x-

"So what number am I?" The thief asks somewhat distantly, looking down at the bowl of slop sitting in his lap. He's not entirely sure what they expect him to do with this, considering his hands are chained above him, not that he'd eat this slop if they weren't.

"Excuse me?" The guards standing outside of his cell asks after a short span of silence.

"What number am I? I know you guys don't just randomly hang people, you have to have some kind of _list_, right? What number am I?"

"Why do you want to know?"

"Oh, I just want to finish writing my _memoir, _why do you _think _I want to know?" He exclaims before calming himself, "I just…I want to know." He looks up at the guard, almost imploringly, his wide golden eyes showing more than just scorn for once. It's enough to break the guard's silence, and he sighs.

"Five. You're number five. We usually only do three hangings a day, so you have a few more days." Flynn knows he should be upset, or at least unhappy, but he can't seem to feel anything at all.

"Just…can I make one request?" He asks, almost too quiet for the guard to hear.

"What's the request?"

"Make the rope as tight as you can."

-x-

Staggering back into the orphanage was one of the most pride wounding experiences he'd had in a long time. Everybody in the entry hall immediately turned to him, and he walked like a grounded pigeon, his head low and his injured shoulders hunched inward. There's no hiding the experience he'd been through, dust and blood coating him thoroughly and blood causing his hair to stick up in odd places. His bruises shown like a beacon of his defeat, and when he felt one of the nuns grab hi by the front of his obliterated shirt he merely looked up at her numbly, already in too much pain to fight her.

"You are nothing but trouble, boy. Running from your punishment and coming back in the dead of night looking like the cat that ate the canary." She hissed, fury glowing in her sunken eyes, "And you've gotten away with being a nuisance long enough. I think you need some time in solitary." The entire building seems to die then, every soul going quiet and every brow raising. Solitary, better known as "The Hole" by his fellow orphans, was a place nobody would even wish on their enemy. It was very rarely used, but when it was, the person subjected to it hardly ever came back the same.

And now it was his turn.

As she dragged Eugene through the building his various broken bones shifted and rubbed against one another, nearly causing him to faint from the pain. "Don't you try to faint on me, boy, you're going to solitary either way." He lets out a pitiful whimper of protest in response, keeping his head low as he's tugged down the stairs and into the basement of the abused building. Various crates and containers populate this place, stacked high to the ceiling and the well providing the orphanage with water is housed here as well. But none of this is noticed by him as he stares at the hole in the very center of the basement.

It's capped by a heavy steel lid, the opening about the size of your average manhole lid, and as the nun uses a crowbar to pull aside the lid he looks into absolute darkness. There's no telling what's beneath it as the entrance to the hole eats away all light.

"Two days in Solitary should do you good." He looks up at the nun, desperately wishing he wasn't so injured so he could escape from her, but just the stairs would be too much of a hurdle in this condition. So he moves forward, taking a deep breath to steady himself as he lowers himself into the opening, crying out as he falls to the floor of solitary. It's hard rock, and it's been worn smooth by the feet of orphans held captive here before him, "Now be a good boy!" She says sickeningly sweetly as the lid is slid back into place. He settles into a corner of the cell, curling in around himself as much as he can.

He starts to acquaint himself with the darkness.


	3. Chapter 3

He didn't want to die.

He wasn't going to lie, and say he was all for it—despite how often he'd been acting like he was all too eager for the rope—but he had a plan. Well, he'd _developed _a plan. And the fact that he had a plan was enough to put a little spring back into his step. Just a little. Although he had a plan, every hour he sat in his cell was another hour to question why he even bothered.

_She's dead. _He reprimanded himself; _she's dead because you killed her. Don't you get this? You're a __**murderer. **_With her gone…he didn't know why he bothered to make another daring Flynn Rider escape. What was out there for him? He couldn't go back to being alone. He couldn't go back to waking up next to what fifty gold coins and charming introduction had bought him all wrapped up in a slutty package. He couldn't keep himself alive for nothing. He'd done it before, almost his entire life, but now that he'd known love, and companionship, he couldn't go back to where he'd been before.

_So why escape? Why try? Why keep fighting when all you've ever done is fight? Aren't you tired of fighting? _He found the voice to be unsettlingly like Rapunzel's. Soft, almost a whisper, but definitely hers. The sound makes a sudden pain grow in his chest like hearing her voice physically caused his heart to quiver. _I love you, Eugene. Why are you running yourself so ragged? Just stop fighting…just once._

"No." This wasn't her. This was his mind poisoning itself with doubt and loathing and fear, "I will fight, I will fight even if it kills me." He feels almost alive again. The sudden resolve like water on a cracked and barren desert, bringing a new life to him.

He can only hope that he holds onto this feeling.

-x-

He wants to die.

Everything _hurts. _Eugene can't seem to find a comfortable position in The Hole, and settles for being curled in the corner of it, his battered body chiding him for any places the hard rock of The Hole touched his skin. If he continues to focus on the pain racking his body, he knows it'll only reach a crescendo again and cause him only more pain, so he tries to deter his attention elsewhere.

He settles on one of his favorite fantasies, really throwing his entire being into the imagined landscape. He closes his eyes, sighing almost happily as he imagines the sun on his face, the breeze on his skin, and the grass's feather soft touch beneath him. He looks up at the sky, not a single cloud or blemish covering the serine blue of it. He has nothing to do, nowhere to go, and no one to please. This is a comfort he'd never known before, and he relishes in the absolute nothingness.

Distantly, he can hear an ocean. The crash of the waves times itself with his breathing, and the even pace begins to lull him into somewhat of a slumber. Everything is perfect here, and he wouldn't give up being in this fantasy land of comfort and happiness for anything.

Unfortunately, he has no choice. He must've truly fallen asleep during his fantasy and a deep sleep at that, because when he awakens he's shocked by the icy chill of water flowing around him. He takes in a shocked breath, accidentally pulling in a lungful of water. He hits the bed of a river, the rocks residing their unforgivingly scraping up his already bruised back, encouraging him to resurface. So the orphan forces himself to use the one arm that didn't completely refuse to work to pull himself up to the surface. He digs his sore fingers into the bank of the river, gasping and coughing loudly.

"Oh good, you're still alive." He hears a baritone voice as he finishes his bout of coughing. He whimpers, his ribs protesting the intense and sharp movements, "Thought you were dead when we found you in that hole." He wants to respond. He wants to tell the Stabbington standing over him how truly furious he is with him for abandoning him when he needed their help the most.

But he can't. He can't form the words he's drawing for, and simply ends up resting his head on the mud of the shower, focusing on forcing himself to breathe. He knows he must be a pitiful sight, but he can't help it. He doesn't know what else to do besides curl up and die at this point. Even the freezing water of the river isn't numbing his pain anymore.

"Alright, come on." A massive hand lifts him with a surprising gentleness before the boy is set back on his feet, "We have a hideout prepared, but we need to get there now before he gives the spot away to someone else. So try and keep up, Pretty Boy." He does his best to do so, limping heavily but managing all the same as they make their way through the looming forest, noting the pure darkness.

"Where are we going?" He whispers, but in the stillness of the forest it's loud enough.

"You'll see."

-x-

One hour.

The criminal had one hour to decide whether he was going to put his newly formed plan into action, or meet his maker, and the guards were more than happy to remind him. He grunts as his chin is gripped tightly, forcing his head up as a rope is tied around his neck. He can feel the rough fibers prickling against his skin, making him shift uncomfortably.

The rope is then pulled away, and he watches one of the guards, study the size they'd measured for him. "Don't want you slipping out of the noose, now do we?" He chuckles, leaning against the bars of the cell, "What's the matter? I thought you're Mister Talkative." Flynn rolls his eyes, pulling at the cuffs holding his hands to the wall.

"Excuse me for not being thrilled at my execution." He responds flatly, crossing one leg over the other to try and get in somewhat of a comfortable position.

"I guess. You're pretty young to be strung up. How old are you?" _Great, he wants an interview._

"Twenty-five." The guard lets out a whistle.

"Just a child." A long and uncomfortable silence follows, "So…why did you kill her, kid?" It's his turn to be silent.

"…" He lets out a frustrated breath, "Because I didn't know."

"Didn't know what?"

"What I had."

-x-

Eugene coughs and sputters, spitting out the vial liquid.

"Damnit, boy, keep it down! It'll help you!" He yelps as a hand grips his chin, the other grabbing his forehead and each pulling in opposite directions to force his mouth open and insert the opening of the bottle. He squirms as the stinging liquor is poured down his throat, drawing back after they release his head, "The liquor'll help numb the pain." He sniffles, wiping his mouth.

"It burns." He responds, trying to settle into the pile of hay serving as his bed. They'd settled down in a barn for the night. It was cold, and they had to sleep on prickly hay, but it would do for now.

"I know. You'll get used to it." He looks down as the bottle is pressed into his hand. Both of the brother's eyes are on him, and he shakily lifts the bottle to his lips again and forces down another mouthful of the liquor. He's surprised to find it doesn't burn quite as badly as the first few forced sips, and even further shocked when the pain circulating his body fades to only a dull ache. He'd do anything to rid himself of this pain, and that included this vial substance.

So he lifts the bottom of the bottle higher and tilts his head back to take in more of the alcohol, only pulling away from it for air. As the liquor hits his stomach he can feel the effects almost immediately, relaxing into the hay.

"Got used to it faster than I thought you would." Eugene shrugs in response.

"S'not so bad now. Everthin' doesn't hurt as much anymore." He lifts the bottle to his lips once again, almost draining it in this go. He lets out a protesting noise as it's pulled away from him, the brother capping what's left of the alcohol and setting it aside.

"That's enough of that. Get some sleep." The brother orders, ignoring the protests of the boy as he reaches over to the gas lamp nearby and slowly extinguishes the flame, shrouding the barn in darkness.

For the first time in a long time, Eugene sleeps soundly.

-x-

A/N:

Just so everyone knows, Eugene is about 15. UNDERAGGEDDD DRINKKINNGG.


End file.
